The Feasts of the Seven
by Gefionne
Summary: Sansa and Sandor share the Seven Feasts - A tourney for the Feast of the Warrior ends with Sandor as champion and, by the will of the king, Sansa as his prize.
1. Invocation

**Invocation**

There is no godswood in the castle. It was built far too late and too far south. She had grown used to the solitude the sacred place of the old gods had once afforded her, but in this place she is free of the clamor of court life that she had sought refuge from. And neither is she alone. Even when her maids and her husband are gone from her, there is still the child that grows in her belly. Smiling, she touches her fingers to her gown, the skin beneath stretched taut. Today is the Feast of the Warrior, the celebration of bold deeds, honors, and feats of strength. She had lit a candle before the altar for him, reciting familiar prayers. The child is unsettled as she kneels, but quiets when she begins to sing:

 _The Warrior stands before the foe,_ _  
protecting us where e'er we go.  
With sword and shield and spear and bow,  
he guards the little children._

She smiles to herself, knowing that one year ago, she was little Sansa Stark, the last of the wolves, and now she is someone altogether different…


	2. The Feast of the Warrior

**The Feast of the Warrior**

No cushions were lined up before the altar, and the stone beneath her knees was cold and rough. She shifted to alleviate some of the discomfort, feeling the skirt of her gown snag. It was once one of her finest, but it had seen too many months of wear. She should have been ashamed to be seen in it; once she would have been. What mattered then meant little too her now. Fine fabrics and elaborate braids could not fill the hole in her heart left by the deaths of her father, her brothers, her mother, her sister. She was alone as she had never been before. Sansa Stark, the last of the wolves.

She had long since stopped asking the gods why. Her prayers had met nothing but silence, and she was sure now that there were no gods, only men, and she had far less faith in them than she ever had in the Seven. She had been beaten, betrayed, and abandoned in her cold tower room. A shade of the girl she had been at Winterfell, she felt as though she would soon begin to fade away.

Sansa looked down at her clasped hands, expecting the flesh to flake away with even the gentlest breeze. Her head felt light, even as her vision began to darken. She could feel herself falling, but could do nothing to stop it. She prepared for the pain of striking the ground, but it never came.

* * *

She woke in her bed, thinking perhaps that she dreamed she was in the Sept, pretending to pray to the Warrior upon his feast day. The door to her chambers opened with a crash, and she expected to see a maid, but instead she saw the towering form of Sandor Clegane, the Hound. He carried a large wooden bowl from which steam was rising.

"You're awake," he said, his voice a deep rumble that used to frighten her.

"What happened?" she managed to ask, though her mouth was dry.

"You fainted," said Clegane. "Nearly fell right onto the flagstones in the sept. Lucky I caught you when I did."

"Thank you," Sansa said. "I didn't know you went to the sept."

He snorted. "I don't, save for when I'm looking for you. What the bloody hell were you doing, girl? The sun's not even up."

"I wanted to be alone," she replied, sitting up. She was still wearing her shabby gown.

"You weren't alone enough up here?" Clegane demanded, striding over to her bedside. He held out the bowl. "Eat."

Sansa was not hungry. She never was anymore, not properly. Clegane had threatened more than once to force food "down her pretty gullet" if she didn't do it herself. She had grown used to him watching her as she took her meals, waiting to make sure each bite of bread and forkful of meat was gone from her plate. It was the way one watched a child, to make sure she ate the peas as well as the beef.

" _The Warrior stands before the foe_ ," she recited, a smile touching her lips, " _protecting us where e'er we go._ "

Clegane's frown deepened, but before he could snap at her, Sansa stuffed a spoonful of stew into her mouth. Clegane scoffed, but his expression softened somewhat.

"I fainted," Sansa said after she had swallowed. The stew was good, rich and thick.

"You have no strength if you don't eat," Clegane said.

Sansa held up her spoon defensively. "I am."

"Not enough," he grumbled.

"Enough for a bird," she replied.

"But not for a wolf." He went to the window. The sun was up by then and there was quite a bit of noise coming from the yards below. They were familiar sounds: the ring of steel, the clatter of plate armor, the splintering of wooden lances. They heralded the start of the tourney King Joffrey had ordered fought for the Feast of the Warrior.

"Will you ride today?" Sansa asked between bites of stew.

"Kingsguard always ride," he replied.

"For the king."

Clegane said nothing, continuing to look out the window. Sansa finished her stew in silence and then slid out of bed. She showed Clegane the empty bowl.

"I feel better," she said. "Thank you."

"I'll call the maid," he said, letting Sansa's thanks fall flat. "You're expected at the proving grounds."

Sansa sighed, already exhausted from the idea of dressing and sitting near the king who had ordered her father beheaded.

"I'll come back for you," said Clegane as he went out.

He was replaced by the rotund maid with the voice like a cat's yowl. She helped Sansa out of her clothes, but fell into despair as she looked through the equally worn dresses in the wardrobe.

Sansa pointed to a gown of deep green velvet, its sleeves slashed with yellow. "That one will do. No one will be looking at me after all."

The maid made a few worried noises, but then dropped the gown over Sansa's head. She laced it and then bid her sit so that she could braid Sansa's hair.

Sansa shook her head. "I want it down."

The maid settled for brushing it. It had grown longer and thicker, falling to her waist in russet waves.

The maid left her after that, and Sansa was once again alone in her bedchamber. She was accustomed to waiting. She was rarely sent for any longer. To fill the hours, she had been embroidering a length of silk. It sat in a basket beside the only chair in the room. Reaching down, she picked it up and looked it over. The stiches were delicate and precise, just as Septa Mordane had taught her, and depicted the snarling face of a direwolf. She had once hoped to have it adorn a bodice, but she knew now that she never could.

Anger and sorrow roiled in her belly as she traced the wolf's muzzle. It was a meaningless sigil now; there was nothing left of House Stark. Ripping the silk from the wooden frame, she went to the hearth and held it out to the flames. Before she could drop it, though, there was a knock at the door. A moment later, Sandor Clegane strode across the threshold.

He was in full plate armor, his longsword at his waist. The white cloak of the Kingsguard hung over his shoulders. As he set eyes on Sansa, her arm still extended toward the fire, his brows knit.

"What are you doing, girl?"

Sansa, unsure of how to explain, said nothing.

Clegane strode over to her and grasped the end of the silk. Sansa relinquished it without protest.

"You've been at this for a month," he said. "Why burn it?"

She looked up at him, confused. He had noticed her work? "I…it's not suitable," she said. "I could never wear it."

"Then don't," Clegane growled. "Keep it for yourself."

Sansa shook her head. "Why? My family is gone."

"You live still."

"But the Stark name will not," she said. "Even if I bear sons someday, their name will be that of my husband. The Starks are dead."

Clegane grunted, unable to contradict her. He looked down at the embroidery, his calloused thumb rasping against the silk. "It's a waste to burn it."

"I can do another," Sansa said. "Something…different. I have time enough."

"Fine," he said, holding the silk out to her. "Do what you want."

She took it, touching the embroidery as he had. "It looks like a lady's favor for her chosen knight," he said, half to herself. She almost laughed. It was so foolish. She would once have blushed prettily as she gave just such a token to a man she thought handsome and gallant, but now she could never imagine it. To have a champion in a tourney meant almost nothing to her any longer. It was just another pretty lie she had believed as a girl.

"Give it to me," Clegane rasped, holding out his hand.

"What?" asked Sansa.

"You want someone to ride for you," he said. "I'll do it."

"I didn't mean that…not exactly," she said. "I don't need—"

He frowned down at her. "Just give it to me, little bird."

She handed it back to him. Folding it twice, he tucked it into his gauntlet.

"Let's go get this over with," he said.

She nodded and followed him out of her room.

* * *

He delivered her to the dais on which the king and his household were seated to watch the joust. Where she once would have been at Joffrey's side, she now kept as far from him as she could. As she settled herself at the far end of the dais, she could not help but recall the last time she had been at the tourney grounds. She had been both overwhelmed and enchanted with the colors and sounds of combat. The glinting armor and the splitting of lances had been exhilarating. Her father and Arya had been with her then.

As she looked out for the field now, though, everything was muted. She saw the truth of the tourney: the battered armor, the piles of horse shit, the shaking hands of the men who lost their bouts. There was no romance, no allure, only weary men and green boys who played at warfare.

The first few bouts did little to catch her eye. She did not gasp when one man was unhorsed, his arm breaking beneath him as he fell. His fine red cloak was besmirched with filth as he was helped to his feet and led from the field by his squires. He had been felled by Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard. The royal household had cheered as he saluted the king. Sansa applauded out of obligation rather than admiration.

However, when the next white cloak appeared on the field, she gave him her full attention. Sandor Clegane was astride his massive black charger, Stranger. He wore his hound helm, but no gorget to protect his throat from the breaking lances. That was bold, almost careless. Had Sansa asked him why he left it off, she was certain he would give a dismissive answer, saying that it rubbed at his neck or kept him from lowering his gaze properly during the charge. He had made it clear to her more than once that he wasn't afraid of injury.

"What difference is another scar going to make?" he said to her once, sneering. "You think it's going to ruin my pretty face?"

His opponent in the joust was a smallish man atop a leggy bay mare. His armor was older, but well kept. It was likely he had fought in many tourneys before this one. He would be capable despite his size. He spurred his horse on first, but Clegane was not far behind him.

Stranger's long strides ate up the ground, sending dirt flying up behind him. Sansa pressed her lips together, holding her breath as she waited for wood to meet steel. They struck at nearly the same time, destroying both lances. Slowing their horses at opposite ends of the field, they tossed the broken weapons aside and took up new ones.

The second time, Clegane was the first to charge. The other knight paid for it. The tip of his lance glanced off of Clegane's shoulder, remaining whole. Clegane's, though, hit him hard in the chest. With only one ride left, Sandor had the advantage. The small knight prepared himself well, but was bested once again. Raising his lance to Clegane, he accepted defeat.

The same went for Clegane's next opponents as well. He outrode them all, earning him cheers from both the royal household and the commons alike. Sansa remained in her seat, but she smiled and clapped with each victory.

When, at last, the final bout was about to begin, Sandor and Stranger stood at one end of the field and Balon Swann at the other. Both raised their lances to the king before the charge. Joffrey stood and bid them ride.

Their lances broke at the same time in the first charge, the resounding crack making Sansa wince. She wondered if Clegane's ribs would be bruised after a day of taking such hits. In the second round, Swann had the upper hand and broke his lance hard. Sandor recovered in the third ride, though, nearly unseating Ser Balon. By the fifth ride, they were tied in lances broken once again.

As they had charged, Sansa had moved to the edge of her seat, her hands clasped tight in her lap. She knew that winning a tourney mattered little to Clegane, but some part of her wondered if he was riding hard because he thought it mattered to her. When it began, it hadn't, but as she watched Clegane fell one man after another, she began to feel the ghost of the thrill she had had at the Hand's Tourney so many years ago. She wanted him—her unexpected champion—to win.

As the sixth charge began, she watched wide-eyed, feeling her heart jump. When Sandor's lance collided with Swann's breastplate, Ser Balon was whipped back against his horse's rump. The startled beast kicked up its back legs, throwing Swann to the ground.

Cheers erupted from the onlookers. Sansa herself shot to her feet, a wide grin on her face. Clegane dropped the butt of his broken lance and trotted Stranger up to the center of the dais, where Joffrey was standing, looking smug.

"Well done, Dog," he said when Clegane removed his helm. "I didn't know you still had it in you."

Sandor said nothing, simply inclined his head.

"As the victor," said Joffrey, "you'll have the honor of sitting at my side at table tonight. And with you, you'll bring the Queen of Love and Beauty." He gestured to one of the lesser lords that stood near him. The man presented him with a coronet of yellow roses. "Take it, Dog, and name her."

Margaery Tyrell, the king's betrothed, raised her chin and smiled, preparing to be chosen. It was to be expected, after all. Taking the crown, Clegane eyed her for a moment, but then reined Stranger away and trotted down to the end of the dais. He stopped before Sansa.

"Come here, girl," he said, gruff, "and take this."

She could hear the murmurs from the others on the dais, but she disregarded them as she went to the railing. Sandor tapped Stranger's side with his heel so that the horse sidestepped closer to her. She leaned toward him and he set the crown gently onto her head. As he moved his hands away, she saw a bit of gray silk at the edge of his gauntlet. She smiled at him as she drew back. To her surprise, the good side of his mouth turned up in return.

* * *

The heat of the banquet hall was stifling as Sansa sat at table. She was picking at her suckling pig, keeping her eyes cast down. As Queen of Love and Beauty, she was seated at the tourney champion's right hand. Sandor Clegane, who had exchanged his armor for a plain black tunic belted at the waist, had been quiet throughout the meal. He had eaten nearly all that was on his plate, but his wine had barely been touched.

Joffrey, however, had already had more than his share and was loudly recounting a tale of his prowess in the mounted hunt. Sansa doubted even half of it was true.

"When the hounds caught up with the beast," he said, "they slowed it just enough for my spear."

"It was very well done, too, dearest," said Margaery, patting his arm. She was smiling, Sansa saw, but her eyes were hard and disapproving.

"Speaking of hounds," Joffrey said, wine spilling from his cup as he turned to Sandor. "Isn't it fitting these two dogs kept company today? My Hound and his wolf bitch."

Sansa kept her face impassive, albeit barely. Though the crown of roses on her head was light, she felt as if it was made of lead. She had once had a girlish dream of being named Queen of Love and Beauty, but there was little joy in it just then. She wondered once again what had possessed Sandor Clegane to slight the future queen in favor of her.

"What a pair they make, don't you think?" Joffrey said to Margaery.

"Indeed," she replied. "They look very…distinctive together."

Joffrey roared with laughter. "Distinctive? I'd wager a thousand gold dragons you'd never see a more laughable match."

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Clegane's hand curl into a fist. She could all but feel the tension of fury kept in check. Reaching out, she laid a hand on his forearm and gave a gentle squeeze. He looked down at her fingers and then up to her face. She blinked at him, willing him to stay calm. He swallowed heavily, but she felt the muscles of his arm relax.

"Dogs and wolves," Joffrey said, rubbing at his chin. "The kennel master says that the best hunting hounds have a little wolf left in their blood, but most of the wildness has to be bred out before they're worth anything." He narrowed his eyes, a cruel grin spreading across his face. "This wolf here is the last of her kind, and I'd say just a little too wild. How better to temper that than to breed it out?"

Sansa felt her stomach drop out, dread snaking down her spine.

"Mix her blood with a common dog's and maybe they'll whelp something worthy," said Joffrey, swaying as he got to his feet. "Dog, you've won a tourney today and should have the champion's purse, but I think I can offer something better: a pretty wolf to take to your bed."

"My dear," said Margaery, reaching for his hand, "I don't think this—"

He shook her off, proclaiming, "A fortnight hence, Dog, you'll wed her."


	3. The Feast of the Maiden

**The Feast of the Ma** **iden**

Sansa's wedding did not fall on the Maiden's feast day by mistake. Joffrey had ordered it. Scornful, he had laughed at the irony. She would give away her maidenhood on the day innocence was celebrated. A year ago she would have wept at the prospect, but it made little matter to her now. It would change nothing. Sandor Clegane would still be the one awaiting her in the sept.

That, too, would once have made her weep, but instead she accepted it with a certain numbness of spirit. Clegane was no worse, she reasoned, than the two men who had come before. She had first been intended for Joffrey, and then for Tyrion Lannister. The latter was repulsive in his way, yet Sansa would gladly have taken him over his monstrous nephew. Clegane was no more handsome than the Imp, but his scars had become less dreadful to her. Though they were as gruesome as they had always been, she had grown used to them. She knew the crags and furrows that his hair could not hide. She had even considered what they might feel like under her fingers. Perhaps now she would know.

As she sat at the edge of her bed, she wondered where he was. She had spent most of the days since the marriage had been arranged in her chambers. She had no visitors save for the maids that came to bring her meals and help her dress. She had seen neither hide nor hair of her betrothed, and had begun to feel strangely bereft of his presence. Coarse as he was, his company was familiar and brought her an unusual solace. They didn't often converse as he stood guard over her as she knelt in the godswood or walked the battlements of the Red Keep, and she felt no compulsion to break the silence as she might have with anyone else. She was content simply to have him near, a reminder that she was not entirely alone.

She had intended to speak to him after the tourney feast, though she had not been certain what she would say. She wished to know what he thought of taking her to wife; if it was a burden or a boon. They had never spoken of marriage. As a part of the Kingsguard, he must never have expected to wed. The guardsmen gave up their titles and lands when they donned the white cloak. Jamie Lannister had been released from his oath when he returned to King's Landing without his sword hand, but Sansa had never heard of a knight leaving the king's service in order to marry.

Had Clegane considered taking a wife before one had been foisted upon him, she wondered. She doubted the answer would be forthcoming unless she asked him outright. Even then, he could dismiss her and refuse to answer. She hoped he would not, since secrets bred only animosity between husbands and wives, or so she had been told. He didn't lie to her, but were there things he wouldn't tell?

She had nothing to hide anymore. Her soul had been laid bare when her family was slaughtered. She masked her grief when she was at court, but it was no secret that she suffered. Joffrey delighted in it, gloating about the demise of the wolves. Now he would see the last of them married off to his Hound as castigation.

But was it truly a punishment? Sansa was not entirely certain. Clegane had always been harsh with her, forthright to the point of callousness, but he had never hurt her or been deliberately cruel. He had clothed her in his cloak when Joffrey had stripped her. He made sure she ate and got fresh air. He had offered to take her away, to keep her safe from the piercing claws of the lions. He had carried her favor in the tourney and crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty. He was good to her, and she trusted him. Marriages had been built on less.

Getting to her feet, she ran her hands over her gown. It was the most presentable one she owned: blue silk with long sleeves and a deep neckline. She had been sixteen when she had first worn it, and it had exposed more of her than she was accustomed to. Her friends at court had been teasing her that she still dressed like a modest a maid of twelve. She had resolved then not to look like a little girl any longer. Seventeen now, she was glad for the cut of the gown. She would not appear girlish on the day she was to be made a woman.

There was a knock at the door. "Come in," she said. The face of the septa who entered was unfamiliar to her.

"Good afternoon, my lady," she said, inclining her head. "I've come to bring you to the sept."

Sansa swallowed, but nodded. Her legs felt heavy as she followed the septa out into the passage. "Will the king be in attendance?" she asked as they made their way down the spiral staircase.

"No, my lady, but he has sent the queen and her retinue in his stead."

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. Facing Joffrey's smirks and snickers would have been insufferable. The queen, who had tried to put a stop to the wedding before her husband had decreed it, would, with hope, look on in silence. For that Sansa would be grateful. If she was to marry before a score of strangers, her only desire was for them to do their duty as witnesses and keep their counsel.

It was not a long journey to the Red Keep's sept. Sansa was glad that she would not be forced to marry in the Great Sept of Baelor, as she had feared. She had no desire to be made a spectacle of as she traveled there. She wanted no bells rung in honor of her union. The ceremony would be conducted quietly and with no fanfare.

Sansa could remember the days she spent with her mother talking of the wedding she would someday have. She had fancied riding to the sept with all her family around her. The commons would cheer and toss flowers onto the street before her. She would smile at them, her cheeks flushed with happiness. Her intended would be awaiting her at the altar in the sept. He would be handsome in his finery, and his hand would be warm as she slid hers into it. The feast to follow would be grand. Bards would sing love ballads for her and her new husband. It would be a day-long celebration befitting the daughter of a noble house.

Those were dreams of the past, however. Today, she would simply pass into the sept, make a short walk to where the septon and her betrothed waited and have done with the vows. Then they would retire to whatever chambers they would now share and have done with rest.

The prospect of lying with her husband had always been the specter that hung over the joy of a wedding day. It was not necessarily something that frightened her—as she had been told many times that there was pleasure to be had in the marriage bed—but she could not deny that her stomach clenched when she thought of stripping bare and presenting herself to a man. She had not illusions about her the beauty of her countenance, but she could not help but worry that he would not find her body pleasing.

Sandor Clegane rarely said anything about her appearance. He had called her pretty before, but he had given her no reason to believe he found her desirable. And didn't a man need to desire his wife in order to bed her? If he did not, it would still be his duty to consummate the marriage. It was hers, after all, to give herself to him. They would not be properly wed until her maiden's blood stained the sheets of their bed.

As she approached the open doors of the sept, she forced those thoughts from her mind. She would contend with the bedding when it came time for it. In that moment, she had to give all of her attention to the queen, who stood at the threshold.

"Sansa, dear," Margaery said, taking her hand. "You look lovely."

"Thank you," said Sansa, dropping a curtsey. "It is an honor to have you in attendance on this occasion."

The queen's expression was tinged with pity. "Yes, of course." She offered a wan smile. "Come, I'll walk you to him."

"I thank you, no," Sansa said. "I'll go alone."

"As you wish," said Margaery. Giving Sansa's arm a last squeeze, she made her way into the wings of the sept where her ladies waited.

Taking a breath, Sansa turned toward the altar. A stout septon waited there, dwarfed by the man who stood before him. Sandor Clegane was garbed in black breeches and a tunic of slate gray. A yellow cloak embroidered with the hounds of his house hung over his shoulders. All of his clothes looked new, as if they had just been made. His dark hair was clean and combed over the scarred side of his face.

Sansa did not tarry on her way to him. She did not go too quickly, but neither did she drag her feet as she might have if she were on her father's arm. As she drew close, she could see the tension in Clegane's frame. She watched the muscles in his throat move as he swallowed. He, too, was uneasy. At least they shared that. Moving until she stood beside him, she offered her hand. Her fingers looked narrow and frail in his wide grip, but she was grateful for the steadiness he provided.

"My lords and ladies," said the septon, raising his arms, "we have come together in the sight of the Seven to join this man and this woman. Though today we raise our highest praises to the Maiden, each of our gods looks down and smiles upon this union."

Sansa barely heard the rest of his invocation or the chanted verses that came after it. Her hearing was deadened, muffling the voice of the septon. Her limbs were numb and leaden. The only part of her that she could properly feel was the hand that rested in Clegane's. When his fingers tightened around hers, she glanced up at him. He met her gaze as he drew his hand away so that he could lift it to the clasp of his cloak.

"I offer you the protection of my house," he said, his voice low and raspy, "that of my name and of my body." Taking the cloak from his shoulders, he spread it over Sansa's. It was too long and pooled at her feet. "With this, I pledge myself as your lord and husband."

The cloak was the second he had given her. The first, white and stained with blood, was folded in the chest at the foot of her bed. He had not meant for her to keep it, she was sure, and it certainly had not hung with the weight of the bridal cloak she now wore.

When Clegane fastened it around her neck, she finally released the breath she had been holding. Turning her face up to him, she said, "And I pledge myself to you as your lady and wife."

"Let the Seven bless this union," said the septon. When neither Sansa nor Clegane moved to embrace, he added, "You kiss her now," under his breath.

Sansa turned toward Clegane, her memory flashing back to the night when he had all but kissed her, the night the Blackwater burned. He had been drunker than she had ever seen him. She wondered if he even remembered. The flash of recognition in his eyes told her that he did. Lowering her gaze to his lips, she wondered how they would feel against hers. Joffrey's lips had been hard and demanding, though she had thought the kiss terribly romantic then. But, Clegane did not stoop to kiss her mouth. He lifted her hand and lightly brushed his lips over the knuckles.

Satisfied, the septon nodded and proclaimed, "I present Lord and Lady Clegane."

A short burst of applause followed them as Sandor strode out of the hall, all but forcing Sansa to run to keep up with him.

"Please," she managed to say as they crossed from the sept into the castle proper. "Please slow down. I'm going to fall." Tripping over her skirts and the cloak that trailed behind her, she pitched forward. A heavy arm encircled her waist, preventing her from slamming painfully into the flagstones. Without a moment's pause, she was lifted off of her feet and into Clegane's arms.

She wanted to ask what he was doing, but then she heard someone behind them suggesting a bedding. Her eyes wide, she hid her face in Clegane's shoulder. The shame of that would be unbearable.

He was silent and swift as he carried her up into her tower room. For a moment she thought he might throw her straight onto the bed, but instead he set her down just beyond the threshold and slammed the door shut behind them.

Sansa drew in a breath, trying to banish the giddiness that was making her head reel. Clegane looked no more settled as he went to the sideboard, on which a plate of cheese fruit had been laid, and poured a cup of wine. Striding over, he pushed it into her hands.

"Drink," he said.

She looked down at the dark wine. She did not want it, but she did as he told her and drank. It would steady her nerves. That would be needed for what was to come. She took another sip and then held the cup out to him.

"Will you have some?"

He shook his head, going instead to the hearth and resting his arm on the mantle. He said nothing for some time, seemingly content to watch the flames licking up.

Sansa stood just as still, though she drank a little more wine. Languidness was beginning to take hold of her. She was not at ease—far from it—but her hands were no longer shaking. When her cup was empty, she stepped toward the sideboard to refill it. The yellow cloak dragged on the floor in her wake.

"Take that off," Clegane said. "You'll just fall over it again."

Sansa glanced at him. He was facing her again.

Setting down her cup, she moved to release the clasp at her throat. Unwilling to drop the cloak carelessly to the floor, she slid it from her shoulders and laid it over the back of a chair.

Turning to Clegane, she asked, "And the rest, too?" He narrowed his eyes, but she could feel him looking her over. She flushed. "Or do you not…want me?"

"Not want you?" he growled, taking a step toward her. "A man would have to be blind and cockless to not want you."

Sansa's mouth opened in surprise.

Clegane raised a brow. "Does that frighten you, girl? Being wanted?"

"No," she said.

"Don't lie."

"I'm not. I know what comes next. I'm…prepared."

He stepped slightly closer, so that she had to tip her head back to see his face. "Do you want it?"

"Do I have a choice? The king will expect to see the sheets come the marrow."

Drawing the knife from his belt, he spun the tip against the pad of his thumb. A spot of red welled there. "If it's a bloodstain he wants, then it's easy enough to give him one. He'd never know the difference."

Sansa's brows knit. He was giving her a way out, offering to spare her from lying with him. Why? He had made it plain that he wanted her, and she was his to take.

"It would be a lie," she said. "You cannot abide liars."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "No."

"Then we have a duty to perform." Going to the laces of her gown, she tugged the knot free.

Clegane stood unmoving, watching her as she unlaced her bodice. Her fingers were numb, making it difficult, but she managed. At last, the brocaded silk parted, allowing her to shuck it off her shoulders. The gown fell at her feet, leaving her in only her shift. It was sheer and did little to hide the shape of her body beneath it. Thankful for the courage the wine lent her, she fisted the linen in her hands and lifted it over her head.

Despite the fire, there was a chill in the room. The peaks of Sansa's breasts pebbled at the cold. She wanted nothing more than the cover herself with her hands, to hide from Clegane's hard, gray stare. But she tempered the urge and forced her eyes up to meet his. They were dark with what she could only assume was desire. Beneath that, though, there was uncertainty. It was the same hesitancy she had seen when the septon had bid him kiss her.

When he made no move to touch her, she reached an unsteady hand out to brush the sleeve of his shirt. "Shall I help you undress, my lord?"

"Don't call me that," he said, almost gently.

"I'm sorry—"

"And don't make your pretty apologies, either." He glowered for a moment, but then his expression softened. "I have a name, girl. Use it."

Sansa nodded mutely, which appeared to satisfy him.

"Go lie down, little bird," he said. "Under the furs before you freeze."

She did as she was bid, finding refuge in the warm coverlet. She did not watch as he began to undress. She half expected him to mock her for her cowardice, but he remained silent. By the time she felt the weight of him on the mattress, she had removed all the pins from her hair. It hung loose in auburn waves.

When she looked at Clegane again, he was sitting at the edge of the bed with his back to her. His hands rested on his bare thighs. Sansa waited for him to turn, but he did not. He seemed frozen there, save for the movement of his chest as he breathed. She could see the subtle movement of the muscles beneath his skin as he clenched his fists and then released them.

Tentatively, she sat up and touched a hand to his shoulder. He tensed under her fingers. She considered pulling back, but instead tugged lightly to bring him to her. Pressing a hand into the mattress beside him, he turned.

Taking her hand from his shoulder, Sansa raised it to his cheek. Taking a deep breath, she leaned in toward him.

"No," he said, drawing away.

"You do not want a kiss?" she asked.

"Not now."

"Then what should I…"

"Lie down," he said. "And breathe."

She eased herself back until her head rested against the pillows. When she was settled, Clegane lifted his side of the coverlet and slid his legs beneath it. Sansa was certain it was not to keep the cold at bay, however. She could feel his heat already. Did he wish to hide his body just as she had hers? The thought was foolish, perhaps, but it gave her some comfort. Neither of them were sure how to behave.

Chewing her lip, Sansa looked over what she could see of him. She was struck once again by his size. He was broad, easily taking up half the bed, and tall. His feet nearly hung off the edge of the mattress. His arms were corded with muscle and dusted with hair the same dark color as that on his chest. The skin beneath was remarkably unmarred by scars, though a jagged line did cut across his shoulder. Curious, Sansa reached out and traced it with her fingertips.

"A lance," he said. "The tip broke on the armor, but a splinter found a seam and went deep."

She could only imagine the agony of such a wound. "When did it happen?"

"When I was a green boy. My first or second tourney."

"It didn't stop you from riding in others."

"No, little bird. It didn't." He eyed her. "Did you stop sewing when you pricked your finger with the needle?"

"A needle is not a lace," she said.

He shrugged. "There's worse pain."

Sansa's gaze went to the scarred side of his face. He caught her at it and frowned. He looked down so that his hair fell over the worst of the scars. Sansa thought to push it back to show him that she was not afraid, but she thought the better of it. She was not going to expose what he wished to mask. Instead, she took his hand and pressed a brief kiss to it. Gently and not without fear, she guided his fingers to her breast.

His skin was warm as he cupped her. The callouses on his palm scratched against her nipple, bringing it up hard. Taking a deep breath, Sansa closed her eyes. Clegane caressed her more confidently then, moving from her chest to her belly. She found that his touch was not unpleasant, just foreign.

Then she felt a sudden pressure between her legs. She gave a short cry of surprise when she realized it was his hand. She opened her eyes wide.

"Easy," he murmured as he rolled onto to his side to bring himself closer to her. He moved his other hand to her stomach and began to make small circles across the skin. It tickled for a moment before Sansa released some of the tension in her muscles. As she did, he began to move his other hand in the same small circles, but at the juncture of her thighs.

She had discovered many years ago that a few quick strokes of her fingers there at night could send her head spinning into a sound sleep. Septa Mordane had always spoken of the perversity of such actions, and as a good girl, Sansa had tried not to make a habit of it. Yet, there had been some nights that she had slickened her fingers and sought release. She and her maids had giggled about the pleasures a husband could give his wife, but she had not thought he would know to touch her as Clegane was now.

"You're slippery as water weed, girl," he rasped.

"Is that…all right?" she asked, anxious.

He stilled, looking down at her.

"What—" she started.

"Yes," he said, cutting her off. "It's all right. Now close your eyes, little bird, and stop chirping."

Sansa obeyed, and after a moment, she allowed him to push her thighs a little wider apart. The circles resumed, making her shudder. She felt his hand on her breast again, the pad of his thumb brushing the nipple lightly in time with each circle.

Sansa bit her lip between her teeth to keep from making any sound, as she always had in the silence of her bedchamber. Clegane had bid her be quiet as well. As her heart began to beat deeper and quicker, though, she could hardly contain the small sounds coming from her throat.

"Sing now," she heard him say as her hips bucked up into his hand.

Sansa's muddled thoughts could not make sense of his command. How could she sing when was she was half mad with— Words failed her as a wave of pleasure broke over her. She heard a cry, almost one of anguish, as her vision darkened. It took a few moments for her to realize that it had been her voice echoing around the chamber.

"Seven hells," Clegane cursed.

Sansa's eyes popped open, and she looked at him in confusion. His hand had stilled, though it still rested between her thighs.

"Liked that, did you?" he asked. His fingers twitched, making Sansa jump. "Well, there's no one in this castle that can say I didn't please you. They might have heard that down in Flea Bottom."

Sansa felt her cheeks start to burn. "You said I should sing," she mumbled, too ashamed to look at him.

"And you will again," he said, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. Slowly, he moved his fingertips down until the tip of the middle one slid inside her. She tensed immediately at the intrusion.

"You know it's going to hurt at first," he said.

"Yes," said Sansa.

Clegane shifted, the ropes that held the mattress groaning, until he was poised above her. She could feel him hard against her thigh. His fingers moved in gentling circles on her shoulder. A few moments passed, but he did not move.

Taking in a steadying breath, Sansa traced a finger along his jaw. "I'm not afraid," she said. "It's all right to hurt me like this...Sandor."

A sigh of warm breath tickled her ear just before he entered her. She bit her cheek hard as the pain set in, but managed not make a sound. She winced as Sandor drew out and then slid in again.

He groaned, going still. When Sansa lifted her head to ask what was wrong, he said, "You're so tight, girl. So damned tight and wet…hot…" He trailed off, his hips thrusting hard and fast.

Sansa dug her fingernails into his upper arms, grinding her teeth. The muscles beneath her hands tightened, and his thrusts slowed again. As he moved in and out of her, he continued to curse quietly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sansa listened to words that should have made her blush, concentrating on his voice rather than the fullness of him inside her.

"Fucking…bloody…hells," Sandor panted with each pump of his hips.

Sansa would repeat each word in her head as he said it to keep her own mind busy. Yet, even as she sought to distract herself from the pain, she found that it was dissipating. Each time she felt him sliding against her, there was a familiar tingling.

Her hands moved from his upper arms to his shoulders and down his back. Holding tight against him, she lifted herself to meet him as he drove into her. She could feel the coil of pleasure in her gut, building slowly.

"I can't…" Sandor gasped, his pace becoming frantic. "I can't…"

That next thrust sent Sansa over the edge into ecstasy once more.

"Seven hells!" they both cried as he spilled himself into her.

With a deep groan, his curses trailed off. His hips stilled, and he pressed his face into the pillows. Sansa lay beneath him, unsure what came next. She listened to Sandor's heart as it slowed. It beat in time with her own.

When he did move away from her, it was to roll onto on his back. Sansa, on her back as well, watched him out of the corner of her eye. He lay still, his eyes open, but fixed on the canopy above the bed.

In the silence, Sansa's head began to fill with questions. She wanted to know if she had pleased him, if she had done all that was required of her. Did he wish her to speak or remain quiet? Everything about this day was new to her, and disconcerting. She was not displeased, though, or frightened. He had not used her badly. The pain did not come by any fault of his. All maidens endured it.

At that, she paused. She was not a maiden. At last, she was a woman grown and claimed by her husband. She was Sansa Stark no longer. She was a Clegane now. Her eyes stung, though not because of her lot in marriage. The tears were for the name she left behind. There were no more Starks, and there would be no more.

"You should sleep, girl," Sandor said. "I wouldn't trouble you again tonight."

"I'm not troubled," she said.

He turned slowly to her. "Then you liked it." It was not spoken as a question, but it was.

"I'm not certain I could say that…yet." Though she could feel the heat in her cheeks, she looked him in the eye and said, "I believe I'll have to try it again before I can render judgment."

She could feel his laughter reverberating through him before it burst free.

"Little bird," he said, "we can try as many times as you like. But for now…" He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. "Sleep. You've some healing to do."

"I'm not sure that I can sleep," she said, earnest.

He sighed. "Try. If you're still awake when the candle's burned down by half, wake me."

Sansa nodded and put her head down on the pillow. After Sandor had closed his eyes, hers remained open. She watched the flame of the candle on the bedside table flicker for a time, but before long her gaze fell on her sleeping husband.

The good side of his face was toward her, lax in repose. She studied the lines of his nose and jaw, the shadowed wells of his eyes. He was not the comely man she had dreamed of, but he had done well by her on this, their first night together. And now as she lay beside him, she did not find his presence unpleasant. She was glad for his warmth and for the smell of warm saddle leather that seemed to cling to him. It would take time to accustom herself to sharing her bed, but as she settled her head on the soft place between his shoulder and chest, she found that she could, in fact, sleep soundly.


	4. The Feast of the Smith

**The Feast of the Smith**

When Sansa woke the next morning, Sandor was gone. Had she not felt stiff and a little sore, she might have thought she dreamed all that had transpired in the night. As she turned back the coverlet and slipped out of bed, she saw a spot of red on the sheet below, proof that she was a woman wedded and bedded. She would have to call for the maid to change the linens before Sandor returned.

Frowning, she considered how their domestic arrangement might go. Would he join her in residence or would she be expected to leave the Red Keep now that she was no longer the king's ward? She did not wish to remain in the castle, but she knew that Sandor had no place of his own to take her to. As she understood it, he had quarters in the barracks of the Kingsguard, and that was no place for a man and his wife. She would have to ask him when he came back to see her, whenever that might be.

Pouring cool water into the ewer by the fire, she washed her face, under her arms, and between her legs. The flesh was tender there, but it did not pain her. Once she was clean, she went to her wardrobe and chose a gown for the day. She did not bother to send for a maid to dress her, but managed on her own.

Once she was ready, she went into her solar. There she found her breakfast laid out. There was fruit and cheese and a pot of warm tea. Her stomach rumbled as she sat down at the small table and helped herself to the food. She had hoped that there might be a note from Sandor, but he had left no word.

Slowly chewing a piece of bread, Sansa resigned herself to spending yet another day in her room working at her embroidery. She had begun a new piece: three black dogs on a yellow field that would adorn a gown, if she ever had any more made. She wondered in passing at Sandor's wealth. As a man of the Kingsguard, he had forsaken all titles and coin that they entailed. However, if he was now released, did that make him heir to the holdings that belonged to his father? Gregor, the eldest son, had long ago disappeared, leaving what he was meant to inherit to the younger brother.

When she had had her fill of food, Sansa left the rest and went to the chair by the fire to take up her embroidery. She had only just finished the head of the first hound, but if she worked throughout the day she would easily be able to complete the rest of it.

However, she had not put in more than ten stitches when the door crashed open and her husband stalked inside.

"We won't stay in this fucking city another day," Sandor growled, his face twisted with fury.

Sansa's fingers tightened around the edges of the wooden frame that held her embroidery, but she said nothing. She waited for him to continue.

"I don't have to show that bloody _boy_ anything," he said. "He's got no fucking right."

"The king?" Sansa asked quietly.

"Yes, dammit," Sandor snapped.

"What does he want?"

"To see your thrice-blasted sheets."

Sansa felt heat in her cheeks. "That's not such an unreasonable request. It's custom—"

"To hell with that," he said. "He'll have to be satisfied with my word."

"I can go before him as well," she said. "To attest to the consummation."

Sandor crossed the distance between them and took her by the arm. "You won't. We're leaving."

"Now?"

"Yes, girl."

"Where will we go?" she asked, her heart lifting a small bit at the idea of putting King's Landing behind her.

"To the Westerlands."

"Lannister lands?"

Sandor flashed her a macabre grin. "Yes. Your banner is pledged to the lions now, _Lady Clegane_."

Sansa knew he meant it derisively, but instead of hanging her head low, she raised her eyes to his and said, "As you wish, my lord husband." She expected him to snarl at her, to mock her courtesies, but instead his brow furrowed as he looked at her in silence, the good side of his mouth twitching.

"Say it again," he rasped.

Sansa felt his gaze on her face, bringing up a blush. Still, she willed herself not to look away. "As you wish."

His hand at her elbow tightened. "Not that part."

"My lord husband," she breathed as his hand slid up her shoulder to her neck.

Sandor's thumb brushed her chin. "I've sent word to Clegane Keep that we're coming. It's not a fine castle like this one or Winterfell, but it's yours to do with as you will."

"Is it a long journey?" she asked.

"A sennight's time if we ride swiftly," he replied.

"Then we'd best make haste." She glanced back at the door to her bedchamber. "I don't have very much to take. Just a few gowns…"

"Leave them," Sandor said. "You'll have new things when we arrive."

"Thank you. That is very generous."

He huffed dismissively. "I may not be a high lord, little bird, but I'm not a bloody pauper."

"I didn't mean it like that," she said.

"I know," he sighed, taking a step back. He rubbed his forehead. "Seven hells."

He was frustrated, Sansa could tell, but not with her. Just as she did not know how to act as a married woman, Sandor hadn't the first idea about how to behave as a husband. Reaching out and taking his hand, she gave him a small smile. "I do not require much, I promise. I do not expect to be spoiled and catered to. I'm sure I will be perfectly content at Clegane Keep."

He looked down at their joined hands, his brows drawing together. "I haven't been there in fifteen years. The bloody place could be falling down."

"Then we shall have to rebuilding it," she said, squeezing his fingers.

With a curt nod, he said, "Pack your things, little bird. We ride at midday."

* * *

The journey to the Westerlands took just over a sennight. Though they have traveled easily for the first two days, it had rained for the next two, forcing them to slow their horses to a walk. Sandor had bought a young gelding for Sansa to ride. He was plain, but good tempered. He stood several hands shorter that Sandor's massive destrier, Stranger.

They had spent their nights at inns along the road. Though they shared a room and a bed, they had done no more than sleep. The first night Sansa had undressed completely, expecting him to take her again, but he had held out her shift and told her it was "too bloody cold" to sleep bare. It was chilly in their room, but once she was curled up beside him beneath the coverlet, it was perfectly comfortable.

She had thought to be relieved that he had not wanted to lie with her, but she could not help but wonder if she had done something to displease him on their wedding night. She disliked that notion very much. She had been afraid then, but she knew he had been as careful as he could. When he had taken her, it had hurt, but as it had gone on, the pain had lessened. By the time he had shuddered and spilled his seed, she had begun to like the way it felt.

She wondered if it would feel just as good a second time. She found that she wanted to know. However, she was often so tired by the end of a day of riding that she could not keep her eyes open once she had lain down beside him.

It was on the evening of the ninth day of their journey that they trotted their mounts through the gates of Clegane Keep. Sandor had spoken true; it was far smaller than Winterfell. There was a central tower at its center with short wings on either side. There were stables just within the walls, though they could have housed only twenty horses at most.

There were a few people about, some pushing wheelbarrows and others carrying various burdens. All of them looked up, many stopping completely, when Sansa and Sandor rode into the muddy courtyard.

"You," Sandor barked at a boy who carried two buckets on a yolk over his shoulders, "bring a groom."

"I am one, my lord," he replied, his voice shaking a little.

"Then take these horses and see them bathed and brushed down."

Dropping the buckets, the boy said, "Yes, my lord," as he hastened over and reached for Stranger's reins. The stallion snorted and popped up on his hind legs, but Sandor checked him with a tug on the bit and a growled admonishment. The young groom swallowed nervously, but took hold of Stranger without complaint.

Sandor frowned as his boots sank into the mud when he dismounted. Neither he nor Sansa was particularly clean, as they had not had the opportunity to properly bathe as they traveled, but standing ankle-deep in filth never pleased anyone. Sansa was certain that when she hit the ground, the damp would seep into her old boots, chilling and wetting her feet. She hoped there was a bath and a fire in the offing once they got inside.

Before she could swing her leg over her gelding's side, though, Sandor was beside her. Taking her by the waist, he lifted her off the horse's back and into his arms. He bore her easily across the courtyard and through the tower doors.

Inside it was warm and dry. Glancing around, Sansa saw that they stood in the great hall of the keep. The lord's seat stood across from the door. A faded banner bearing the sigil of the house hung behind it. She was surprised to see that the dining tables were not straight, as were those she had seen in the halls of the Red Keep and Winterfell, but curved to follow the lines of the round tower.

"My lord," said a stout woman with a head of curly gray hair as she approached them from across the hall. "You have arrived at last. We are glad to see you return to this house." She dropped a shallow curtsey. "I am Miryem, the keeper of the house."

Sandor set Sansa down gently beside him. To Miryem, he said, "You can show my wife to her chambers, then. She is in need of a bath and food."

"Very well, my lord," she said. Then to Sansa, "Greetings, Lady Clegane."

Sansa nodded graciously.

"Come, my lady," said Miryem. "I'll take you to your room."

Sansa took a step, but then paused, turning back to Sandor. "Will you not come as well?" she asked.

"Later," he replied. "Go clean up, little bird."

* * *

Sansa soaked in the big brass tub the servants had brought to her chamber until the lavender-scented water cooled. Her new room was larger than the one she had had in King's Landing, though more sparsely furnished. Perhaps once she would have insisted on more lavish décor, but she no longer felt the need. The big bed was covered in furs and looked comfortable enough. The chairs near the hearth were plush. They would serve perfectly well.

Behind one of the faded tapestries that hung on the wall was a door adjoining her chamber to Sandor's. As she had looked it from the bathtub, she had wondered if he would come to her when he wished to lie with her or if he would prefer that she came to him. As far as she knew, it was customary for the husband to visit his wife's bed, but that was by no means a certainty. It would have been far simpler if they had just been given shared chambers. And, she thought, she might even prefer that.

It would be somewhat strange to sleep alone again after sharing a bed with him all the nights of their journey. She had grown used to his warmth and the way he held her to him. She found that she didn't mind the quiet noises that he sometimes made as he dreamed or the occasional jerk of his limbs. His nearness soothed her in a way she had not expected. She would gladly sleep in his arms most nights.

"My lady," called the keeper of the house from outside the door to Sansa's chamber, drawing her thoughts away from matters of the marriage bed. "Are you ready to dress for dinner?"

"Yes," she replied, rising from the chilly bathwater and reaching for the long robe that was folded on the table beside her. "Do come in."

The door creaked as Miryem entered. "Was the bath to your liking, my lady?"

"It was. Thank you."

She smiled and dropped a brief curtsey. "I'm glad, my lady. We do want you to have all that you need."

"I haven't any doubt that I will."

"Well," said Miryem, looking a little sheepish, "there's the matter of a maid for you. I'm sorry to say that she's not yet arrived."

"Were there no maids in the keep already?"

"Scullery maids, yes, but no lady's maids. And Lord Clegane means for you to have a proper one, not one of the girls from the village. He sent all the way to Lannisport for her, and the seamstress, too. She's to make you a new wardrobe."

Surprised, but grateful, Sansa said, "I will remember to thank him this evening."

"Indeed, my lady," said Miryem. "He's ordered dinner served whenever you are ready."

"He's waiting for me?" she asked. Going to her bed, where she had laid out her only clean gown, she dropped her robe and pulled on a muslin shift. "I'd best dress quickly."

Miryem bustled over to her side. "Let me help you, my lady. It'll be quicker work with two sets of hands."

The keeper of the house proved more than capable with the buttons and laces of Sansa's gown, though she made her apologies for her lack of skill at arranging hair. Sansa dismissed it, content simply to let it down. It fell to the small of her back.

Once she was dressed, she allowed Miryem to show her back down to the great hall. Sandor was seated at the center of the table when she arrived. He, too, had bathed and exchanged his soiled traveling clothes for a pair of black breeches and a dark green tunic belted at the waist. He rose as Sansa approached. She was surprised at the formality.

"Good evening," she said as she sat in the high-backed chair at his right hand.

He nodded to her and took his seat again. Uncertain of how to begin a conversation, Sansa remained silent as the servants brought out a dish of peppered game hens adorned with sprigs of thyme. It smelled wonderful and tasted better. Sansa said as much to Sandor.

"Then the cook is good for something," he rumbled. "She won't need replacing."

Sansa raised a brow. "Had you intended to seek a new cook?"

"If it was needed. The people here have been fending for themselves since my father died. They haven't had to serve anyone in years."

"They've done quite well so far," she said, taking another bit of succulent meat. "I'm grateful for the maid you sent for, though."

"The damned girl is three days late in coming," he said. "She should have been here before us. Ready for you."

Sansa hid a smile in her wine cup. He seemed truly incensed that all had not been in order before her arrival. He had said nothing of the preparations he had made to ensure her comfort, and she admittedly had not expected them.

"I'll be glad to see the rest of the keep soon," she said.

"It can wait until tomorrow. You should be abed after you've eaten. Nine days in the saddle is hard."

Sansa was not about to deny that.

"Do your chambers suit you?" Sandor asked "They're meant for the lady of the house, but if you don't care for them, there are others."

"They're lovely," Sansa replied. "Thank you."

He snorted. "I doubt anything in this bloody keep is 'lovely,' but you can change that."

"What do you mean?"

"Everything here is old and moldering. It should be gotten rid of and replaced." He paused to glance over at her. "If you see fit to do it."

"You wish me to outfit the keep with new furnishings?" she asked.

He shrugged. "The place is yours to do with as you please. Don't worry about the coin, either. I have it."

Sansa was pleased she had not had to voice that particular concern. Instead, she simply nodded and gave him a small smile. "I will see it is well kept."

They finished their meal in silence. It was not an uncomfortable quiet, however. Sansa was content to savor the food. She finished nearly all of it, though she did not pick the meat off the bones as Sandor did. It was not mannerly, but she was not offended. In some ways she could appreciate his roughness, as it reminded her that he did not abide by the niceties of court that she had come to loathe in King's Landing.

Once the servants had cleared their plates, Sandor got to his feet and offered his arm. Sansa took it and followed him out of the hall. The spiral staircase that led to their chambers was not far, and they arrived quite swiftly at her door.

"I'll send the keeper of the house up to help you prepare for bed," he said.

It seemed that once again he intended to leave her to her own rest. Despite her exhaustion, she found that she was not yet ready to sleep.

Reaching for his hand, she said, "We need not disturb her. If you'll help me to undress."

He swallowed heavily, his eyes tracing her form. "If you like."

"I do," she said as she opened the door and drew him across the threshold.

A fire was crackling merrily in the hearth when they entered her bedchamber. Glad for its warmth, Sansa brought Sandor to the space just before it. He seemed satisfied to allow her to lead him. She felt her heart speed up as she thought of what was to come—and she did mean for them to lie together—but it was not with nerves. No, she was curious how it would feel to have him inside her again.

Turning her back to him, she moved her hair over her shoulder. "Will you see to the laces?"

A few moments passed before she felt his fingers slowly pulling the knot free and then releasing the leather laces. Once they were free, he spread the gown open so that she could slide it over her arms. She did, letting it fall around her feet. When she faced Sandor again, she did not hesitate. She reached out for his belt.

He let her undo the buckle and set the belt down on the chair nearest her. His tunic came next, though she could only lift it halfway up. He had to pull it over his head. When he had dropped it, Sansa lay her hands on his bare chest, the hair soft under her palms. He closed his eyes briefly as she brushed the flat nipples. Taking that for encouragement, she moved down to the waist of his breeches.

"Wait," he said, his voice rough. "Let me at least take my boots off."

She stepped back, though not too far. He sank into a chair and set to divesting himself of his boots. Putting them aside, he rose again and went to Sansa. He took a lock of her hair between his fingers, touching it gently.

She felt heaviness in her loins and her smallclothes were warm with a sudden wetness. Turning her face up, she stepped into his arms. He enfolded her, pulling her against him with no small force. Her head rested squarely in the center of his chest. He smelled of soap, but beneath it was the musk of his skin. She had grown used to the smell of him over the past days as they shared a bed on the road. She knew that she would have missed it had they slept apart that night.

"Come," she said, quiet.

Once more, he followed her as they went to the bedside. There, she raised the skirt of her shift, pulling it up. She was nearly trapped in it as she struggled to get it over her shoulders, but then Sandor was there, his warm hands brushing her skin as he lifted it away. She stood naked before him, warmth burning in her cheeks as he looked her over.

Trailing his fingertips down her arm, he said, "Perfect."

"You flatter me," she said, looking down.

"No, girl. Anyone who says less is a blind man." He said it with conviction, his eyes dark with desire. He made quick work of his breeches then, discarding them on the flagstones beneath his bare feet.

Sansa sat back onto the bed in an unspoken invitation for him to join her. He did so without hesitancy. The feather mattress sagged beneath his weight, keeping her close to him. To that she had no objections.

Lying down onto the pillows, she cupped his unmarred cheek. His mouth was hot as it closed over hers. He groaned deeply when she slid her tongue past his lips to meet his. He lay on his side next to her, his left hand pressed to her hip. She remembered clearly the feeling of his fingers between her legs and the ecstasy it had brought her. Hoping he would do it again, she parted her thighs.

He drew back from her, his brows raised. "Is there something you want, little bird?"

Licking her lips, she glanced down at his hand.

"Tell me."

She flushed, but managed to say, "Will you…touch me? Like you did before."

"Like this?" he asked as he slid his middle finger against her.

"Yes," she breathed, pressing her head back into the pillow. Just before she closed her eyes, she saw the start of a wicked smile on his face.

It took even less time for her to rise to the edge of frenzy and go tumbling over it than it had the first time. Between Sandor's caresses and his mouth at her breast, she lost herself within a few moments of his first touch.

"Seven hells, girl," he said as she spiraled back down. "You're sensitive. Far more than I've seen before."

"And that pleases you," she said.

"Bringing you to your peak pleases me. And being inside you."

Her desire flared. She, too, wanted him to fill her again. She moved to draw him down to her, but paused when he shook his head slightly.

"Come here," he said. Taking her by the shoulders, he pulled her on top of him so that she was astride his hips. She could feel him hard beneath her.

"It's not so different from riding a horse," he said, the corner of his mouth turning up. "You have a good seat in the saddle. You'll do just fine here, too." His hands at her waist, he lifted her up so that he could position himself under her. "Easy now. Go slowly."

Heeding him, Sansa lowered herself onto him. The feeling was still somewhat foreign, but there was no pain.

"Gods," he cursed as she took him in, his eyes pinched closed.

"Are you all right?" she asked, uncertain.

" _Yes_."

She didn't bother to hide her pleased smile, knowing he would not see it. Biting at her bottom lip, she planted her hands on his chest and gave a tentative roll of her hips. He answered her with a groan.

"Good, girl," he growled. "Keep on like that."

She did as she was bid, moving faster as she got a feel for it. The sounds Sandor made were a guide, but so too were her own feelings. Him slipping into and out of her set her to tingling. She found that when she pressed herself against him, she was struck with a jolt of sensation. Leaning down closer to him, the feeling intensified, making her catch her breath. Sandor's eyes fixed on hers as he heard it.

"Go on, little bird," he said, cupping her breasts. "Take your pleasure again." Heat shot through her veins as he brushed her nipples with his thumbs. The pressure at her center only intensified.

Sandor urged her on, taking her by the hips and pushing her down against him with each stroke. When she shattered, she threw her head back and cried out.

Sandor let her ride out her release with steady thrusts, but when her ragged breathing began to grow steady again, he said, "Hold tight to me."

She came down onto his chest, her fingers tunneling into his hair. He drove up into her harder, faster. It would have been far too rough for her the first time they had lain together, but now she reveled in the feeling of him burying himself in her to the hilt. Nuzzling his neck, she whispered his name in his ear. He stammered hers in reply as his body went taut beneath her and spilled his seed.

They remained joined until their hearts slowed. There was a sheen of sweat between them, but Sansa was not bothered. She had no desire to get up and wash. She wanted only to curl up against Sandor and rest. He had the same idea it seemed, for when he finally moved away from her it was only to turn onto his side and pull her to him.

Taking the hand that he rested across her belly, she pressed a kiss to his knuckles and bid him goodnight.

"Good night, little bird," she heard him say as she fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The ensuing weeks passed swiftly for Sansa. She spent several days with the dressmaker being measured and then fitted for new gowns. She explored all of Clegane Keep and made notes as to what furnishings had to be replaced and what could remain. As Sandor had said, most of the keep had been in disuse for years.

She discovered that there was a small sept in the east wing, though it was thick with dust and cobwebs. She had it cleaned and ordered candles brought to adorn the altars. She paid particular attention to the shrine of the Smith, whose feast it was that day. She had no particular celebration planned, but she disliked the notion of neglecting the god. Kneeling before his image, she prayed for the craftsmen who were working to fashion new furniture for the keep and for the maids, cooks, and stable lads who labored each day to keep the household in order.

She was fond of her new maid, Arianne, who had come from Lannisport. They were of an age and had got on well from the start. She was keen to keep Sansa's appearance up in accordance with the fashion in the city. Sansa felt little need for it in the secluded keep, where only Sandor and the commons saw her, but she indulged Arianne because it made her happy.

Since their first night in residence, Sansa and Sandor had not spent a single night apart. Most often they kept to his bed, which was larger than hers, though they rarely required all of the space it offered, as they stayed pressed close together even as they slept.

They lay together often and well. He had taught Sansa of the many ways to love, all of which she was quickly learning to enjoy.

They ate their meals together in the great hall, but to fill the space they often told the servants to join them rather than keep to the scullery to eat. Sansa was fond of their lively conversations during dinner as they spoke to each other about the goings on of the day. Though they always treated her with deference, she considered many of them her friends.

"You're all right here?" Sandor had asked one night as they lay side by side after making love.

"Yes," she had replied, honest. "I am glad to be the lady of the house."

"You do it well."

"My mother taught me how to manage a household. I hope my efforts here would please her."

"She'd be a fool not to be," he grumbled.

It was perhaps not the most elegant of compliments, but she knew he meant it as one. "Thank you, Sandor," she said. "Are you all right here as well?"

"Little bird, I'd rather burn in each one of the Seven Hells than be any place else."

Sansa smiled and said, "As would I."


End file.
